


It's Not Stalking

by Unforgotten



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, M/M, Post-Canon, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5310488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforgotten/pseuds/Unforgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After D.C., Charles keeps an eye on Erik via Cerebro, with no intention of ever actually speaking to him.</p><p>Of course, this resolution doesn't exactly last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not Stalking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frau_kali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frau_kali/gifts).



> Thanks so much to cygnaut for beta'ing! :D
> 
> ETA: I forgot to mention - this fic considers the Rogue cut of DoFP to be canon, so if you haven't seen that, there's where the Raven + Cerebro references in this come from.

Charles had taken Erik's helmet with him after D.C.

Abandoning it there on the White House lawn wasn't an option, not a choice he ever could have made. Leaving it in the hands of the government would have been out in any event, since there would always be a risk of Erik finding and taking it once again—but more importantly, now that Charles knew what Trask Industries had done with Raven's blood in one timeline, there was no chance he was going to give anyone a telepathy-blocking helmet on a platter in this one.

Left with the question of what to do with the helmet now that he had it, Charles first considered a safe deposit box, but didn't like the idea of keeping it at such a remove (or in a place so vulnerable as a room lined with metal boxes, an hour's drive away). He considered destroying it, but wasn't there the chance it would be needed someday? If nothing else, the helmet was an alternate to the serum if the voices got to be too much, and he had promised himself never to take the serum again.

It would have been a potential danger to the future student body to keep it in his office, it would have been the height of foolish sentimentality to hide it away in his bedroom, and so in the end Charles moved it to the bunker beneath the house—specifically, within the Cerebro installation, in a drawer beneath the main set of controls. It was the most secure location available, since no one but Charles or Hank had authorization to enter that room. (And if Raven could, technically, get in as well, Charles chose to believe that she wouldn't, that they could have a little faith in one another, going forward.)

***

As it turned out, keeping the helmet in that particular location had been a terrible, terrible idea. Charles knew it the first time he parked in front of the console after Hank had finished repairing the damage Raven had inflicted. All through the phases of testing Hank had insisted upon—meant to make certain that not only Cerebro but Charles himself was functioning correctly—he kept thinking about the helmet, unseen in its drawer but most assuredly present. He kept thinking about what it meant. If the helmet was here, then Charles could find Erik anytime, anywhere.

Just a few months ago, he'd have told himself he didn't want to. He'd have reminded himself that Erik had killed JFK, that a year before that he'd put a bullet in Charles' spine and walked away, abandoning the lot of them alone on that beach and taking Raven with him. If that hadn't seemed terrible convincing, because it was one of those days when he kept remembering everything good about Erik, he would have drunk until he remembered that Erik had turned out to be just as much of a monster as he'd ever claimed to be, or until he passed out on the couch.

Even on those days when he couldn't convince himself and couldn't drink Erik away, Charles _couldn't_ have used Cerebro to find Erik. Not then, even though he'd known Erik's precise location. And on those days, he hadn't yet known what he knew now: That in another life, Erik had come back to him, and they had stood together, a united front at the very end; and that, out of the three things Charles had been holding against him for all these years, Erik had been responsible neither for John F. Kennedy's death nor for Raven's own choices.

Now, Charles couldn't pretend he didn't want to find Erik. Taking his telepathy back had stripped away his ability to lie to himself, to tell himself that his supposed hatred of Erik was anything other than hurt and betrayal.

He could, however, still tell himself he shouldn't. That whatever Erik hadn't done before, he had certainly made up for in Paris and D.C.; that the fact that they'd reconciled as old men in another life didn't make Erik any safer in the here and now; that between public relationships and working to re-open the school, the last thing Charles needed was to allow himself any distractions.

No, he wouldn't be looking Erik up, Charles decided. Not now, anyway. Not unless something happened to force his hand.

***

Nothing did happen to force his hand, not then—nevertheless, Charles lasted all of three sleepless nights before he found himself getting out of bed around two a.m., wheeling down the hall to the elevator before he let himself think about what he was doing. When the doors opened to the sub-basement level, Charles nearly changed his mind, but in the end he kept going, knowing that if he didn't do it tonight, it would be tomorrow, or the next night, and by then he'd have had even less sleep.

It seemed both darker and emptier down here than it ordinarily did, despite the fluorescent lighting being exactly the same as ever, and Charles having been down here alone on any number of occasions recently. Cerebro, however, seemed welcoming and bright—proof enough of how much things had changed for the better.

For some reason, Charles had expected to find Erik across the ocean, getting on with his day at ten or eleven in the morning, his waking mind bristling with awareness (and, probably, suspicion). Since he'd started looking in Europe, it took him longer than he'd expected to find Erik—in Buenos Aires, in bed asleep in the middle of the night just like Charles ought to have been himself.

It was more difficult by far to see anything when trying to read the mind of anyone who was sleeping. Even dreams were by and large useless, since they might or might not have any relation to what was going on with someone or what they were doing during their waking hours. The most solid information Charles could seem to get now was that Erik was in a hotel somewhere, and that much he could have guessed by himself.

It had been eleven years since Charles had chanced to sense Erik's mind while he was sleeping. There was nothing particularly special about it, nothing to distinguish Erik from any other sleeping soldier (for that was how Erik slept, and always had--lightly, able to startle awake in a single moment if necessary. It had taken Charles months, once, to learn how to tiptoe quietly enough around Erik's sleeping mind to keep him from stirring; he never had gotten the knack of moving around in physical space without doing so). Nothing special about it, and nothing particularly unique--Erik's slumber was no different from any war veteran's. He wasn't even deep enough in to have begun dreaming, disorienting and surreal as other people's dreams tend to be.

There was nothing to see here. There certainly was no reason for Charles to stay there for over an hour before he withdrew, powered down Cerebro and headed to bed. Yet he did, anyway.

***

Having looked Erik up once, Charles had no intention of doing so again—but in this, history repeated itself, and several weeks later he found himself once again heading down to the sub-basement in the middle of the night. This time, he found Erik awake. If Charles had been expecting Erik to be thinking of him, or thinking of his own plans, he was mistaken; Erik, instead, was standing in line for a cup of coffee, rubbing his hands together, irritated that it was a cold enough day to wish for gloves, but not quite cold enough to be certain that he wouldn't get odd looks if he put a pair of them on, if strangers would take note of him where otherwise they wouldn't have.

Erik was in hiding, after all, Charles reasoned, and that meant being careful—more careful than he'd ever been before, probably. Where only former Nazis or a few high ranking U.S. officials had known what he looked like (and what he could do) before, now people all over the world would know his face (and, if they didn't know the precise nature of his ability, they'd gotten a clear enough idea from that business with the stadium). He found himself much more dismayed by this idea than he would have given credence—he'd been distressed enough at the idea of allowing Erik to be captured right in front of him, but the idea of Erik running, always, as long as he lived...that much was downright upsetting, even if Erik himself didn't seem particularly bothered.

It was that part of it, probably, which kept Charles from breaking his silence. That, and the fact that he had no idea what he could possibly have said, or even what he wanted to say.

***

Over the next few years, Charles continued checking in on Erik every three weeks or so. Longer intervals made him feel on edge until he'd had the chance to check in, see how Erik was doing, that he _was_ still doing in one way or another; shorter intervals, on the other hand, made him feel like a bit of a peeping tom, particularly on the occasions when he happened upon Erik while he was showering. (Once, he popped in while Erik was masturbating. Popping back out seconds later took a greater effort of will than Charles had previously realized he possessed.)

He followed Erik from South America to Europe to Asia, then back to the United States for a few months during which 'every three weeks or so' became 'every other day, because damned if I'm going to be snuck up on if he decides to show up at the house.' (Erik didn't.) He never dipped very deeply into Erik's mind, despite temptation; this wasn't about keeping on top of Erik's plots, taking any action against him.

What it actually was about, Charles wasn't sure. All he knew was that it had become a regular part of his life, and it kept _Erik_ a regular part of his life—even if Erik knew nothing about it.

***

Everything changed on a night in June of 1977. Charles went looking for Erik, as he had so many times before, and found him about a hundred miles west of his previous location, which had been in a small town in the Canadian wilderness.

Only this time, Erik was being hunted.

Exactly how the CIA had found him, how they'd isolated him from any and all metal, Charles didn't know, nor did he have the time to find out. But he did know something Erik didn't—where each of the CIA agents were located around him, and where their blind spots were.

Charles had let Erik be captured once for something he hadn't done. Then, he'd let Erik go when he had tried to do much the same thing he hadn't back in '62. Their slate was clean. And yet—

 _Erik,_ Charles said. _Can you hear me?_

"Charles?"

...Had Erik said that out loud? Yes, yes he had. Was he _trying_ to get caught? Good lord.

 _Shut up,_ Charles said, turning Erik's mouth off for good measure—he'd get it back once they were done. _If you want to get out of this, do exactly as I say._

Erik hadn't slept in two and a half days, hadn't eaten in longer than that, and Charles half-expected him to balk, so that Charles would end up having to choose whether to freeze the agents in their place (and thus give the CIA a reason to look at him more intently than they usually did these days) or letting them have Erik after all. To his surprise, Erik went along with it, hiding when Charles said to hide and running when Charles said to run. For once in his life, he didn't try any funny stuff.

And at the end of it, when the agents were headed in the opposite direction from the one Erik had gone, and they'd found a ramshackle, hopefully-abandoned cabin for Erik to shelter in, which came with such conveniences as a cast iron stove and several rusting forks, as well as several dubious cans of beans in the cupboard, Charles gave Erik back the use of his mouth.

He immediately regretted it when Erik said, "How long have you been stalking me, old friend?"

Erik's voice sounded different this way, the way everyone's does from inside their own skull. Charles had heard Erik speak from this angle fairly often over the last few years, but this was the first time he'd ever been the one being addressed. It was very strange.

 _It's not stalking,_ Charles said. _It's—it doesn't matter what it is._ As an argument, this seemed lacking, so he added, _You know, you could at least thank me._

Erik, though, had started in on the can of beans, which seemed even more dubious now that he'd removed the top of the can than when identifying its contents via the (stained and partially chewed) wrapper. He didn't seem like he was inclined to say much more while he was eating, and Charles had no desire to share any part of that particular experience.

He slipped out of Erik's mind, and when he came back to himself, he found that his hands were cold, shaking, his breath coming short and sharp in his chest. He'd been so immersed in what was happening that he'd lost track of his own body entirely, had had no idea of the physical reaction it now seemed he'd been having.

He wasn't even sure when it had started—when he'd discovered the danger Erik was in, or when they'd begun something that might have become a conversation, if he'd stayed.

***

A week passed, then two, and Charles didn't give into the temptation to look for Erik again, find out how he was getting on, or discover if he was still being actively pursued. Three weeks, and Charles gritted his teeth and made his excuses for why he had begun avoiding Cerebro altogether. He thought it might be malfunctioning. He had a headache. He'd found the reception wasn't as good whenever young Ororo had been practicing with thunderstorms. He'd been shedding an awful lot of hair on his pillow at night, and suspected Cerebro was the cause. If an excuse had been invented, he used it, until Hank began giving him the side-eye and it was either give in or explain the real problem. Charles couldn't imagine how Hank would react to his actual reasons, and so he returned to using Cerebro, imposing strict limitations for how long he would allow himself to use it on any given day, and forcing himself out the moment he'd finished whatever official business he'd gone in for to begin with.

Four weeks. Five. Six, then seven, and then one day a telegram came to the mansion. It was addressed to Charles, and all that it said was,

> YOUR MOVE

It wasn't signed, and there was no return address, but Charles had his suspicions. And, although he'd finally stopped thinking about Erik as much as he always had before, the way everyone stops thinking about some other person if they remove themselves for long enough (and don't happen to be in active misery because of that person), it was enough to make him lose his resolve. The day after the telegram came, he once again found himself heading down to Cerebro, as bad an idea as it was, and as much as it made his palms sweat now that this was no longer a one-sided affair.

 _I am not playing chess with you telepathically,_ he said as an opening, when he'd located Erik, who was now in Barcelona for whatever reason. _That's absurd._

"Then we'll play in person," Erik said. "We can meet in Central Park next week."

Charles knew exactly what would happen if they did meet. It had happened so many times before, in a life he hadn't lived, one he'd only gotten the barest glimpses of during that short-lived conversation with his other, older self. If he met Erik in the park, they'd wind up in bed by the end of day. No doubt about it. Then, they'd wind up meeting again and again, tied to each other no matter how long they went between meetings. And maybe Erik would come back someday, or maybe he wouldn't, and there was no way to know, because nothing that had happened in that other life guaranteed anything in this one.

Charles knew he shouldn't. But he hadn't lied to himself going into this conversation, either, and there was no point in pretending that he didn't welcome this suggestion, hadn't expected something like this. _Saturday afternoon works for me._

***

Over the past few years, Charles had checked in on Erik every so often, but steered clear of anything beneath his surface thoughts and impressions. This time, though, he felt he was justified in looking a little farther in, just enough to see what Erik thought of this, what he hoped to accomplish here. There was no point in walking into some sort of trap, after all. And of all the things Charles wasn't interested in, meeting up with Erik on a perfectly good weekend afternoon just to be shouted at was at the head of the list.

What he found there surprised him, not because he hadn't known that Erik's feelings about him had to be complicated, but because they so closely mirrored Charles' own feelings about Erik. He hadn't realized how often Erik had thought about showing up at his door, or sneaking in a window in the middle of the night. He'd had no idea of how Erik had changed his mind every time, deciding that that bridge had been burnt, that Charles wouldn't care to see him, that he certainly didn't care to see Charles. Even after Charles had saved his idiot life, Erik had dithered for weeks before he sent that telegram, waiting to see if Charles would contact him again, trying to tell himself that he didn't give a damn whether he did or not.

All together, it was enough to make Charles realize that it would probably be a good idea to have one of the guest bedrooms made up, just in case he offered to let Erik stay, just in case Erik decided to take him up on it. (Just in case Erik brought it up and Charles was the one to accept, for both scenarios had occurred to each of them separately.)

In the end, he decided to move Erik's old helmet to a safe deposit box after all.


End file.
